


A Christmas Carol

by Reyn



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - A Christmas Carol Fusion, Ghosts, M/M, Post Hogwarts AU, crossover AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 12:57:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13147182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reyn/pseuds/Reyn
Summary: Having lost himself in his desperation to rebuild his monetary legacy, Draco Malfoy is visited by a series of ghosts in an effort to make him see how much more there is to life.Basically, A Christmas Carol AU.





	A Christmas Carol

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LeioRossi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeioRossi/gifts).



> I'm a TOTAL sucker for crossover AUs. So when I saw this prompt on Leio Rossi's list of prompts for the Drarry Secret Santa, I knew I had to do it, even if I knew it would be longer than what I technically had time for. Leio, I hope you enjoy it!

Lucius Malfoy was dead as a doornail.

At least, he was to his son, Draco Malfoy.

Unfortunately, the Ministry of Magic did not see things quite the same way, which led to some very messy legalities when it came to Draco trying to do…well…anything, really. His trusts were still locked, he was unable to claim any inheritance, and he lacked the power of attorney to stop others from taking advantage. Add to that his war convictions and all _those_ additional restrictions and Draco was left clutching the Malfoy legacy by a very thin thread.

But it was a thread that would have to be pried from Draco’s cold, dead hands.

He had become his own solicitor and investor, and with what limited rights he had, had dove into spending the last five years fighting tooth and nail to amass a secondary fortune that was worthy of the Malfoy name.

“Market’s closed.”

Draco glanced up at Gregory’s voice, his eyes flitting over to the cuckoo clock he had hadn’t noticed chiming the hour.

“Hm. Check the ticker and be ready to receive the reports on – where do you think you’re going?” Draco stared at the bewildering sight of Gregory standing with his cloak on, reaching for his scarf and cap.

“It’s Christmas Eve.”

“So? We need to see if investing in the greenhouse in Kensington was profitable or not. And check on the status of my shares. And sequester off the appropriate percentage – why are you still reaching for your scarf?”

“S’cold,” Gregory stated gruffly, wrapping the scarf around his neck before turning his back to Draco as he pulled out his chair and sat back down at his desk.

Draco squinted at Greg’s hunched form, trying to tell if he was upset or not. Not that it hardly mattered. The December markets had been kind to Draco (much kinder than the last eleven months had certainly been), allowing him to lock a few Galleons safely away from the Ministry’s prying eyes. With any luck, he would be able to meet this month’s dismal goal six days early, which would mean he could start planning out his next financial goal as soon as tomorrow morning.

The bell above his office door rang, and less than a second later, Narcissa Malfoy stepped in, pausing long enough to take in her surroundings and allowing the small frown on her face to deepen.

“The market is closed.”

Draco was fairly certain his own frown matched hers. “Yes, Greg’s told me. Are you all announcing it because my clock might be broken?”

He gave the cuckoo clock another look, glad to see the second hand was still tick-tick-ticking away above the entrance to the miniature Gringott’s façade.

Narcissa, with her hands still tucked away in her new fur muff (because _she_ still had access to _her_ inheritance and Black trusts), remained by the door. “We are announcing it because it is Christmas Eve and I fully expected you to be home within seconds after its closing.”

“For some reason, I highly doubt you were waiting in the sitting room with baited breath,” Draco retorted, eyeing her furs and impeccable glamour charms. The flush on her cheeks suggested she had been out for a while. Probably shopping; squandering away her money without a care, failing to understand its precious value.

“Draco, it’s Christmas Eve.” It was amazing how practical his mother could sound when she was trying to get her way.

“Yes, and the market has only just closed, which means I have various reports to review—” a stack of bound papers came spitting out of the floo, and Greg got up to retrieve them “—and a financial plan to write for the new year, as well as at least three contingency plans.”

“But we have traditions—”

“A luxury I can hardly afford at the moment.”

There was a pause in their argument as Narcissa visibly drew in a calming breath.

“I see.”

Draco barely suppressed a scoff at that, but realized seconds later why she had so easily given up the battle.

“Don’t stay too late. Many of the aurors are being given the night off, so the streets won’t be as safe.”

Draco would have pointed out he could just take the floo home, but he had started rationing the floo powder to help stretch his sickles as far as they could go.

“Fine,” he conceded.

“And I expect you downstairs and ready in the morning by nine o’clock sharp,” Narcissa added.

“Excuse me?”

“The Christmas party starts at ten—”

“What Christmas party?”

“—and with your father’s condition, we will need to take the carriage.” The quill that Draco had in his hand was dropped to the desk in disgust. “You don’t need to worry about gifts, darling, I’ve already taken care of all that—”

The feathered plume of the quill began to frost over, which really wasn’t much of a feat, given how cold it was in the room.

“Mother, I am in here every day during every hour of daylight thanks to Father and the consequences of his choices. I pour every ounce of my anger and frustration into trying to keep myself afloat by rebuilding all the things I had been promised since birth that I am now being denied simply because Father _won’t_ die—”

“Draco!”

“—and if you for some inexplicable and asinine reason expect me to sacrifice one of my seven days before the end of the fiscal year so that I can spend an _hour_ sitting in a confined carriage with his soulless husk in your attempt at normalcy so that you can save face at some _pointless_ party—”

His quill exploded into icy shards, startling him badly enough to bring his rant to a halt. After staring down at the debris in disbelief, he looked up at his mother, whose face was tight with fury.

“How dare you.” Her voice was as cold and calm as Lucius’ could get when he was at his most furious. “How dare—” Narcissa cut herself off and looked to the side.

The firelight revealed a heavy glisten in her eyes, and for a moment, Draco felt like a child again; torn between his own anger and the guild over upsetting his mother as badly as he had.

But rather than play it up as she would have in the past, Narcissa reigned her emotions in.

“Nine o’clock sharp,” she said, turning to leave. She paused before exiting. “Happy Christmas, Gregory.”

Greg jumped at the sudden attention. “Er, H-happy Christmas, Mrs. Malfoy.”

But he was talking to an empty doorway and the tail end of a ringing bell.

“The market’s closed tomorrow,” Greg pointed out. “Are you really not going to go?”

Irritation won over Draco’s shame at the question. “No, I’m not going to go, did you not listen to a word I just said to her?”

“Yeah, but…” Greg shrugged. “…would be nice to have a day off. S’Christmas, after all.”

Draco stared incredulously at his friend until self-consciousness got the better of Greg and he shuffled around in his chair and hunched over the ledger he was working on. Shaking his head, Draco leaned over to open various desk drawers until he could find a new quill. Clearly the dismal weather was getting to everyone if they were all so determined to suddenly make a big deal out of one stupid holiday.

As if they all had anything to complain about. They weren’t the ones who had to fly to and from work, freezing themselves half to death on a broomstick every day.

Determined to put his poor encounter with his mother behind him, Draco resettled himself in his chair and untied the bundled reports that had been placed on the corner of his desk. Hopefully these bore better news than the majority of the ones that he tended to receive.

Several hours later, the bell above the door jangled once more, startling Draco from his note-taking badly enough to leave a streak across his parchment. He glared down at the err he had no means of erasing before looking up to turn his glare on those who dared to interrupt him. This was a private office, which meant soliciting was completely unwelcome.

His lip curled as he recognized the two figures brushing the snow from their robes all over his carpeted floor.

“Is there any reason as to why you couldn’t do that in the building’s entrance hall before you ascended the stairs to hunt down my office?” Draco demanded, putting his quill aside to avoid any mishaps this time around.

Ron Weasley merely pulled a face, but the great and powerful Harry Potter at least had the decency to look somewhat apologetic.

“We’ve been doing a lot of footwork out on the street,” Potter explained. “It’s taken us from the entrance to here to get the majority of it off.”

“Merlin, it’s freezing in here.” Ron glanced around at the fireplace and various lamps. “Why haven’t you got any heating charms?”

Potter’s groan and the creak of Greg’s chair as he turned to stare incredulously at the pair did little to assuage the spike of offense Draco took at the question.

“Might have something to do with the Ministry breaking my wand in half, I would suppose.”

The acerbic tone wasn’t lost to Weasley as a blush stained his chilled face a deeper red. “I meant in a broader sense! Like, why don’t your landlords take care of that sort of thing?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Because they’re goblins, Weasley. This is a Gringotts-owned property. They could care less about how cold their spaces are when they don’t have to worry about receiving public complaints.”

“What about private ones?” Potter asked, leading the way further in now that they were free of snow.

Draco shrugged and leaned back in his seat. “Rent is higher to have them heat the place.”

“Huh,” was all Potter had to say to that as he clasped his hands behind his back and took to looking around Draco’s meager office with great interest.

Suspicious, Draco tried to follow his line of sight to see what he was looking at; what he might be judging. There was nothing here worthy of auror attention. Nothing to warrant a visit or explain why the Ministry was suddenly giving him notice.

But before he could open his mouth to point this out, Draco was flooded with the sensation that felt much like sinking into the Prefects’ bath back at Hogwarts after a night out flying. Shocked, he whirled his attention back to Potter, who was still looking around the office like its shelves of paperwork were the most fascinating thing ever. Sending a glare at Weasley, who was grinning at Potter as if his sneakiness were so clever, Draco crossed his arms and jutted in chin forward, refusing to allow his muscles to relax at the gentle heat wave that now filled the room.

Just as the silence grew taught, it was Greg of all people who broke it, muttering a quiet, “Thanks,” over his shoulder.

“What do you _want,_ Potter?” Draco finally snapped.

Potter’s hands came up in peace, not that such a gesture meant a lot from an auror who most likely had his wand tucked up his sleeve.

“And I swear, if the word ‘routine’ is included in any part of your explanation, I will have security up here in a heartbeat.”

Mouth open like an idiot, Potter appeared to mentally review whatever he was about to say before closing his jaw with a rueful look. “Fair enough. But it isn’t quite what you think.”

Draco scoffed. “As if you know what goes on in my head.”

“I do have some idea,” Potter said casting another glance around the room. The look Draco gave him was dark enough for him to actually get to the point. “Right. So the auror department is collecting donations for MOODS this season, and we were wondering if you would like to contribute.”

A glance at Greg showed he was just as clueless as Draco felt.

“What is MOODS?” he asked.

“Muggle Orphans Of Dark Schemas. The Ministry has a department that’s been keeping tabs on those who were affected back in the war – Look, this really is routine for us,” Potter said, switching tactics as if he could actually see how quickly Draco’s defenses were rising.  “We pick a different charity each year to support for the holidays and—”

“And what?” Draco interrupted. “You just decided that since this one might be the result of some of my past deeds that I would feel guilty enough to donate? Fuck you, Weasley,” he shot at the redhead’s downturned lips and shrug of acquiescence. “If the Ministry wants my money, they can steal it from my permanently withheld accounts for all I care.”

Potter frowned. “I’m pretty sure they can’t legally do that.”

“More’s the pity, then. You won’t legally get a knut from me – my budget can’t afford to be dishing out money to pointless things such as charities or fundraisers.” Draco all but spat out the two words. “If I wanted to help someone who was orphaned directly by my hand, I’d adopt them. Now if you’ll excuse me…” When neither auror made a move to leave, Draco nodded his head towards the exit. “There’s the door. Go away. Leave.”

“You—” A quick, restraining hand to Weasley’s shoulder stopped him in his advancing tracks.

“It’s fine, Ron.”

“No, it bloody well isn’t!”

“No, no, you’re right. It’s just…can you wait outside for a minute?”

Draco’s eyes widened at that. Was Potter going to try something that wouldn’t allow for any witnesses? He looked over at Greg, who was still very much present, despite doing his best to stay uninvolved by keeping his nose buried in his work.

Weasley left without putting up too much of a fight, which did little to help Draco’s nerves. Once the door jingled closed behind him, Potter’s aura of confidence dimmed to uncertainty.

“Are you…” Potter winced, “Don’t take this poorly, but are you free tomorrow?”

The hesitancy caused Draco’s trepidation to lessen. “Why? Is there a banquet you’re obligated to invite all the former Death Eaters to so they can stare into the eyes of the children whose lives they destroyed?”

“Christ, you can be so appalling. It’s Christmas, you tit. I’m asking what your plans for Christmas are.”

Ah. Draco had almost forgotten about Potter’s habit of needling him about his plans at randomly fixed points in the year. Christmas, Samhain, July-ish, May-ish, there were probably springtime visits as well that he couldn’t recall at the moment.

“My answer is the same as always, Potter.” Draco reached for his quill. “I’m busy.”

Potter nodded in understanding. “I get that. Only, there’s this Christmas party that—”

“Merlin, Potter, you are dense. Let’s try this again.” Draco leaned forward with his elbows on his desk. “I’m busy trying to scrape together the shambles that my life has become. I have no time for whatever comradery you’re attempting, nor do I care. I have generations worth of a legacy to rebuild, which leaves me no time for pleasantries, and _yes_ ,” he stressed when Potter opened his mouth, “that includes Christmas. Now, there’s the door. If you’ll excuse me.”

He pointedly looked down and returned to work. It took him a moment to truly force his attention away from Potter and what he was doing, but he managed. For a few seconds.

His concentration was broken when a calling card was slid across his desk.

“Just in case you find yourself with any free time, here’s the invite to get you in.”

Draco’s gaze lingered on the card as Potter withdrew his hand.

“There’s more to a legacy than money.” The bell above the door jingled. “Ta, Goyle.”

Greg grunted in response and Draco went back to his notes.

+

The hour was quite late by the time he made it home.

Draco had sacrificed a bit of oil for the lamps to push through his reports for a bit longer than normal, not realizing this would mean he would be flying home in a snowstorm. He had been blown off course several times and only made it home thanks to the broom’s built-in Tracking Charm, designed to encourage a broom to return to its place of storage for convenience and anti-theft’s sake.

His fingers were swollen and sore within his mittens, the Warming Charm on his scarf needed a new crystal, and he couldn’t feel his toes.

He dropped his broom as soon as he was sure his legs still worked and hobbled up the stairs towards the main entrance, struggling to free one of his hands so that that doorknob would recognize his signature.

Flexing his fingers a few times, he reached out, only to pause as he noticed something off about the knocker on the door. In the dim porch lighting, it appeared as if the knocker was covered in some kind of residue? A moss? Or…ash?

The knocker began to ripple, the surface shape changing with some areas sinking in while others began to protrude. A face formed with a gaping mouth that let out a groaning scream that took Draco’s very breath away. Images of fire and flight leapt to the forefront of his mind, as well as the overwhelming terror he had felt that day in the Room of Hidden things so many years ago.

He stumbled back with a gasp, a cold sweat breaking out all over his body despite his previously freezing state. Whirling around, whatever spell Draco was under broke as he took in the quiet darkness and normality that surrounded him. Panting for breath, he looked back at the door to find nothing wrong with the knocker that would trigger such a flashback.

With one last glance around to ensure he was alone, Draco reached for the doorknob once more, screwing his eyes shut right before his skin made contact. He didn’t want to see if a repeat performance were charmed to happen and simply twisted the knob and stumbled blindly through the door.

There was nothing out of the ordinary in the entrance hall. A flickering light in the distance caused a bit of alarm until Draco remembered it was just the fireplace in the sitting room that his mother kept lit to help chase the chill of darkness that still lingered within the manor.

Shaking his head, Draco began to unravel the scarf he had wrapped around his face as he headed up the stairs towards his wing of the house. The sooner he went to bed, the sooner he could beat dawn and head back to the office for a quiet day of writing up his plans to make the upcoming year more profitable than the last. He already had some ideas that he should probably jot down before bed. They were a bit on the risky side, but in his current exhausted state, he had a perfectly good list of reasons as to why it was worth going forward.

A pale glow from an adjacent corridor caught Draco’s attention.

“Grandpa Armie? I know I usually tell you I don’t have time for your drivel, but I have several ideas I’d like to get your thoughts…” Draco trailed off as he rounded the corner to find an unfamiliar ghostly figure floating with its hulking form facing away from him. “…you’re not my Grandpa Armie.”

“No,” the ghost rasped, keeping its back to Draco.

“Who are you? What are you doing here?” Draco took several steps back.

“Don’t—don’t be scared. You know me.”

The skeptical laugh Draco let out sounded a tad hysterical. “I highly doubt that. The only ghost the manor holds is its founding father and I know him quite well. Whoever you are, you are not welcome here.”

“You once got us lost in the attic for so long that your father had to use a summoning charm to find us. Your mother was in such hysterics that she wouldn’t let you out of her sight for a week. My own mother wasn’t too fond of you after that.”

“…Vincent?” Draco whispered.

The ghost slowly turned, and Draco watched in horror as his childhood friend revealed his face to him at last.

It was completely charred and bubbled, as were the remains of his school robes. Bits of him were still smoldering and Draco could swear his eyes were glowing like the dying embers in coal.

Draco threw himself back, hitting the wall and knocking off a picture of a wintery scene, startling the reindeer out of the frame. He did his best to hold back his whimpers, but some of them still made it through.

“Wh-what do you want?”  

“I’m not here to hurt you,” Vincent pacified. Merlin, his voice was so gravely. Was it because he died screaming as the _fiendfyre_ entered his lungs? “I’m here as an omen.”

Realization dawned on Draco. “It was you. You were on the knocker when I came in.”

“The door was the best portal for me to use to cross over. It’s tied to you.”

Another whimper sounded from Draco’s throat.

“Three spirits will visit you tonight, Draco.”

“Friends of yours?”

Vincent shook his head, causing a small shower of ash to fall and disappear as it reached his feet. “The Malfoy destiny is one too great to ignore, so the fates are intervening.” A crumbling smile was offered. “With how jumpy you can be, I figured you would appreciate a warning.”

Draco’s eyes darted back to the corridor he had come from. He was sure there was enough salt in the kitchen to surround his bed with.

“You can’t escape them, Draco.”

“Haven’t I been through enough horrors to last a lifetime?”

For a moment, Vincent merely stared. “You should heed their warnings. For your own sake, if nothing else. You’ve lost your way even more than I did. And the price to pay for that is a heavy one in the afterlife.”

Unwilling to listen to any more ominous statements, Draco gave into his terror and tore down the hallway towards his bedroom, not stopping until he was safely buried under the blankets that held numerous protection wards that had been put in place when he was a young boy.

It was there he remained, in a tightly curled ball with his eyes shut and hands over his ears, until sleep overtook him.


End file.
